


All I Know Is Flight

by hedda62



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:05:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedda62/pseuds/hedda62
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Not that the Library is only a workplace.  It has atmosphere and beauty and dust and shadows; it holds lingering echoes of lightning keystrokes and reluctant smiles; it's where he meant when he told Carter he wanted to go home.  It's the place he works with Finch, and therefore it's like nowhere else in the world.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>And now they have to leave it behind.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Know Is Flight

**Author's Note:**

> This is not in the least a PWP (for one thing, no sex) but I think it needs an acronym: something like IPUC (Insufficient Plot Under the Circumstances). Or MILMSYI (My Id, Let Me Show You It). Also, AU In Advance. Sorry about all that.

No sanctuary lasts forever, Reese thinks as he breaks down and packs gun after gun, the setting sun angling into the Library's windows. Placing gas grenades in their cradle, he remembers being quietly explored by chubby baby fingers, lowering his face to take in Leila's sweet smell. He remembers Bear whuffling at a corner where there's a now-blocked-up hole in the paneling (mice also have a taste for rare first editions). He remembers days and nights, and mornings bright with the scent of coffee, and he's even remembering Leon's whining with an inexplicable fondness, when a small sound from the main room seizes his attention. It's so small he would have missed it if he hadn't been unforgivably frozen in reminiscence, wasting precious seconds: just an intake of breath, ragged, meaningless out of context.

It may be a sob.

He abandons critical, time-sensitive work without a qualm, and goes to Finch. "You all right?" he asks, sidling from darkness into light, startling the man standing by the desk with his face full of despair and his fists clenched by his sides.

"I'm fine, Mr. Reese," Finch says with a reassuring twitch of a smile. He's anything but fine, but Reese accepts it, says, "Ten minutes," and goes back to the grenades. It's been half an hour since he said "half an hour," but they can afford to stretch his estimate a bit, since that's all it is. He'd known, instinctively, to give Finch a time frame. It's not the same as a clock ticking down to an explosion, everything that matters concentrated in cool precise taps of shaking fingers. But it's still numbers. Minutes are numbers; square inches of trunk space in the anonymous sedan parked outside are numbers. Numbers limit, and numbers open up infinite universes, and he knows which one of those he has to believe in right now; if he could hobble Finch's expansive mind into believing the same, he would.

The weapons go into the car. They won't have time to swing by the loft to pick up the rest, but defense is amply provided for, and nothing else there tempts him. While he's with Finch he won't go short of food or clothing or other worldly possessions. He's tried, because Finch wanted it, to make himself at home there, but part of him has refused to attach, to imprint, and he's glad of that now that he'll never see the place again.

The Library's different. It shouldn't be more important, more personal than the place he keeps his underwear and his omelet pan, but then he's lived most of his life without an omelet pan and more of it than is reasonable without two changes of underwear; only for the worst parts of it has he lived without work. Not that the Library is only a workplace. It has atmosphere and beauty and dust and shadows; it holds lingering echoes of lightning keystrokes and reluctant smiles; it's where he meant when he told Carter he wanted to go home. It's the place he works with Finch, and therefore it's like nowhere else in the world.

And now they have to leave it behind.

"John?" says Finch's thin voice behind him. "I'm ready."

He turns. Not that it matters, but Finch is lying; he's never seen anyone less ready. There are mind-tricks you learn to play when your whole life is leaving things behind, and Finch doesn't know them. It's the most dangerous thing about him, that he clings. Reese had thought, after Root broke in and did the electronic equivalent of taking a dump in the middle of the floor, that maybe revulsion would kick in, that the Library would be profaned and poisoned and Finch wouldn't have any trouble breaking away. But he was wrong. It's not possessions Finch is clingy about; he agreed quickly enough to disable the computers and leave them and the books behind, and the only nonessential items he insisted on packing were the numbers and photos from the pin board, and Bear's toys. If Root wants the numbers, she already has them, and there are PetSmarts everywhere, but Reese hadn't seen the point in arguing. They have trunk space.

It takes ten minutes to load the car, and then they bring Bear down on the leash and he jumps happily into the back seat and lies down. Finch opens the passenger door; hesitates.

"I have to…" he says, doesn't finish the sentence, heads back inside. Reese decides to give him five minutes to say goodbye -- remembers doing something similar himself, at one of his childhood uprootings, running upstairs to scratch his initials into the sill of the window with his favorite view -- but he's out again in two, clutching a book.

"Reading material?" Reese asks; he doesn't expect an answer. Finch folds himself awkwardly into his seat, then looks down at the book as if he's not sure why it's in his hand.

"Hm," he says, and passes it over. It's old but not ancient, with a silhouette of a dark wing on the cover.

" _Night Flight,_ " Reese reads. "By Antoine de Saint-Exupéry." He gets a little twitch of a smile, for pronouncing it right. "Well, it's late afternoon, but…"

"A random selection," Finch shrugs. "Have you read it?"

"No. I read _The Little Prince_ when I was a kid. Made me cry."

"Well," says Finch as if he doesn't know what else to say, and then, "Draw me a sheep, Mr. Reese," and Reese starts the car and they drive away without looking back.

They head north, avoiding toll roads and rest stops, filling the tank and their stomachs and emptying their bladders at anonymous gas stations with attached sandwich shops. It's been dark for hours when Reese pulls off the road at a chain motel in western Massachusetts, mountains looming on the horizon. He pays for the room in cash, and he's perfectly ready to smuggle Bear inside and enforce quiet all night, but there's a sign by the desk that says "Pets Welcome" with a little canine outline, so he pays the extra fee and takes the dog biscuit the smiling clerk hands him. Once Finch and Bear are safely behind a locked door, he goes out for pizza.

It's a mild night with stars sprinkled across the sky like hot pepper and oregano, the box in his hands is warm with promising puffy crust, mushrooms and oily pepperoni, and the guy behind the counter started life in Brooklyn. The air here is fresh, and he takes a deep breath of it before he opens the motel room door. Finch is sitting on the end of his bed, still wearing tie and shoes, watching some late-night cable crime show that he switches off as Reese comes in. Bear smells the pizza, and looks up expectantly.

"You have your own food, Bear," Finch says, but after he eats a slice and a half he gives Bear the rest of his share. Reese takes the dog out for a last walk, strolling the perimeter of the parking lot, and when they come back Finch is stripped down to T-shirt and boxers and under the covers.

"It's been a long day," he says apologetically, and Reese tells him to sleep, adding five more words to the tally of how little Finch has uttered in the last twelve hours.

He settles down himself in the other bed after checking the door and the window once more, and placing guns in strategic locations. Curious, he picks up Finch's book, and leaves the light on long enough to read a few short chapters, finally nodding off and coming awake again to stare at the last words he'd read, in the middle of the pilot's farewell to his wife.

_She might snare him in a fragile net of music, love and flowers, but, at each departure, he would break forth without, it seemed to her, the least regret._

He tries, for a moment, to remember saying goodbye to Jessica, but it's as if he's lived several lifetimes since then; she's half a dream, and he turns out the light and falls into empty, exhausted sleep.

In the middle of the night a noise wakes him: not a noise that makes him lunge for a weapon, but one that makes him think he's back in the Library, though he doesn't know why at first. But no, he's in bed in Massachusetts; and by the filtered light from outside he sees that Finch is sitting in the chair by the window, wrapped in a blanket, a sound coming out of him that isn't quite sobbing. Reese gets out of bed and pads over in his bare feet, stands awkwardly by the chair for a moment and then gets down on the floor, feeling an urgent need to be noticed, feeling that he's wrong to interfere.

"Hey," he says, looking up into Finch's face.

Finch sniffs. "Hello, Mr. Reese. I'm sorry to wake you."

"I'm a light sleeper."

"Sorry," Finch says again, and, "This is somewhat embarrassing," with a quick wipe of his nose that is and will be the only acknowledgment that he has, in fact, been crying.

"No, it's not." He must still be dumb with sleep, because it only hits him now for the first time that Finch isn't wearing his glasses. The naked face is much more open, much easier to read; he shouldn't be misled into assuming that the man behind it wants to be deciphered. "It can't be easy, leaving a place behind you've lived for so long." Because it's not just the Library; it's New York that Finch misses.

A little sigh, then: "I had just about concluded that we need to go back at first light."

"No. Not for a while. If ever. You said--"

"I know what I said. But we left… we left so much undone--"

"Harold." He grabs Finch's knee, forces attention. "Carter and Fusco will take care of Grace. Trust them."

There's a slight relaxing of the muscles under his hand. "I know," Finch says, and Reese knows he's thinking of the three of them meeting, of Carter picking up the photograph and asking about it, of connections forging like wires and circuitry.

"And you said you thought the trail of… digital breadcrumbs wasn't much to go on." Of course, if anyone can follow it, it's Root. "Besides, all she wants is the Machine."

"You don't know that," and now there's desperation lurking in the unmasked features, and he strokes the soft blanket over Finch's leg.

"Yeah," he says, "I kind of do." He doesn't believe himself, but he's not going to let Finch figure that out. "And we'll contact Carter tomorrow, as arranged. For now… can you sleep?" Finch shakes his head. "Will it help you to talk, then?"

Another head-shake, but then he adds, "I suppose we should decide where it is we're going."

"There's a limit to the amount of random driving I'm prepared to do. But we don't need to make decisions tonight."

Finch ignores this. "A city," he says. He's probably right; whether it's temporary or permanent shelter they're looking for, they'll blend in better in an urban area. Finch will have to be talked into some low-end shopping in the morning -- they have hardly any clothes with them -- but in the long term they'll both need access to city resources. And if their relocation is for good… well, there are only so many numbers to save in a suburb or a small town, and too many chances to stand out.

"Not Boston, I guess," Reese says, and Finch's mouth twists ruefully in agreement. "Portland, maybe?"

"Providence?" Finch counters with another lip-twitch; it's a joke, of sorts, and Reese knows he's really not ready to make a choice.

"For now," he says, "let's be tourists. We must be due a vacation," and Finch rolls his eyes but doesn't tense up again, and Reese realizes that he's kneeling on the floor not wearing much and it's chilly, and lets himself shiver. "Forgot to pack a bathrobe," he says: also sort of a joke.

Finch looks straight at him suddenly; his vision must be blurred but it's a very keen glance. "We'll get you one," he says, "black silk, I think. With a gold dragon," and then there's a little what-am-I-saying smile that works as an apology for being foolish in the middle of the night, for not being careful enough with security despite being inhumanly careful, for everything Finch may or may not have done that's led to today's flight.

Reese wants to shake him or hug him or do anything other than saying mildly, "Is there a Chinatown in Providence?" and getting up to fetch the blanket off his own bed. He tucks it around himself and sits back down, closer to Finch's legs; it feels like they're having a slumber party, not that he's entirely familiar with the concept. Bear's awake now, watching them from under the desk, tail thumping twice to acknowledge that the circumstances are unusual but not alarming.

"Dogs," Reese says, "aren't upset by new places as long as they're with the pack. Nomadic instinct, I guess. Even though they've been domesticated so long." It's equally intuitive to lay his head on Finch's thigh for what he means to be a few seconds, the length of a symbolic gesture: _you are my pack._ The hand that rests itself on his hair surprises him; it strokes a little, comforting. He's not the one who needs to be comforted, but he'll take what Finch wants to give him.

The hand brushes hair back from his forehead, then fingers explore his face as though Harold is completely blind and not merely nearsighted, as if this is the only way he can know John. They circle his eyes and stroke down his nose, trace his cheekbones and the line of his jaw, find the hollows and the soft places and the hardness under the skin. They are uncompromising and analytical and tender, curious and confident and breathtakingly erotic, and yet he can't believe that's what Finch means by it, even when a thumb trails over his lips and his body shouts out in welcome. And then the hand withdraws, and a few seconds later he lifts his head, and they're not going to talk about it. Because that's not what tonight is about; it would be as unfair as quizzing Finch when he was drugged out of his mind; it would be taking advantage of sorrow and loneliness, and he's too good for that. Finch has made him too good for that.

It's a bit difficult to start up a new conversation after being… appraised? examined? made love to?… so he continues the previous one instead. "Humans all used to be nomadic, too, of course. We've got wandering in our DNA." Finch snorts gently, not quite denial; John adds, "Fast food restaurants. Party tents," and then, zeroing in, "Pilot's licenses."

"Touché, Mr. Reese," Finch murmurs. Then he closes his eyes and says, in a tone of quotation, "'Amid the far-flung treasure of the stars he roved, in a world where no life was, no faintest breath of life, save his and his companion's.' It's what happens when you fly too high, when instinct leads you to seek the light above the storm. Did you get that far in the book yet?"

"No. I left off where he's leaving his wife."

"Ah. Spoilers: it doesn't end happy. Not that happiness means much; or life. 'We do not pray for immortality, but only not to see our acts and all things stripped suddenly of all their meaning; for then it is the utter emptiness of everything reveals itself.'"

"Cheerful, Harold," he says because it's expected of him, and then: "You didn't choose the book randomly, did you?"

"Well," Finch says dryly, "it is a rare first edition; it could buy you a nice suit or two. If we keep Bear away from it. And no, not entirely." He puts his hand on John's head again. "I thought you'd like it."

"Thanks, I'll try to appreciate the revelation of utter emptiness. And by the way, no one's stripping your acts of their meaning. Not while I'm…"

"Standing in front of them protecting their virtue?"

It's a distillation of every ounce of bitterness Harold has ever squeezed out of an arid remark during their acquaintanceship, and the only response John can make is "Yes."

Harold's grip on his skull tightens and then releases. "Oh, John," is all he says, and John translates _thank you_ and _how foolish can you be_ and _I don't deserve you and I'm never going to tell you why,_ and he wants to rise up and pin Harold to the chair and kiss him unmercifully and squeeze the self-pity out of him, and he doesn't move. A moment later Harold adds: "I can't regret not leaving New York years ago. Although that's what I should have done."

"You should have," John agrees. "I'm glad you didn't, and I'm not alone in that. But there would have been other numbers in another city. Other people saved. There would have been another me."

Harold lets out a little huff of a laugh. "Hardly."

"I'm not irreplaceable."

"I don't agree, Mr. Reese. And I ought to have listened to you."

In John's opinion, the Library had been compromised long ago, Corwin's death notwithstanding. But he's complicit in widening the cracks not just in that secret but in every one they jointly possess, so he can't blame Harold for hanging on after Shaw found them. He himself invited Leon in; he's given Carter and Fusco too much information; even Bear is a liability. Opening himself up to anyone but Finch has always been a mistake, a temptation edging into a need. Zoe understands this better than most; she's taken to putting a finger on his lips when he's about to expose himself verbally, though he suspects she gets nearly as much data from other sorts of exposure. She's made him miss her, but not too much; she's always known he'd leave someday. One way or another.

And no: Zoe's seen his scars, but she hasn't felt the wounds. Harold, he thinks, has.

"Kara told me once," he says, "that the only way to keep moving, to avoid being paralyzed by… what she didn't call regret, was to imagine all your past selves like characters in a movie. When you have time, of course; going to the movies is a leisure activity. You can watch them; you can sympathize with them; you can even feel their emotions, but in the end you have to leave the theatre and say _that's not me_ and carry on."

"Hm." It's not disagreement, just acknowledgment. An invitation to say more.

"I've been a lot of people in my life. Some for years and some just for a day. I'd go crazy if I couldn't cut some of them loose. But Kara was wrong; they're all me. And all your bird-men; those are you, too." He hesitates a second, then adds, "I wish I could help you let go. But I don't think you're wrong to hang on."

"Again," Harold says tightly, "I respectfully disagree. And since many of your identities are of my creation, I must apologize as well. Merely because someone is skilled at splitting himself into different selves does not mean one should force him to do so. Although you're quite… integral, really."

"You've never forced me to do anything." He leans against Harold's leg. "Stop beating yourself up." _It hurts me, when you're in pain,_ he doesn't add. He seldom shies away from pain: now, only where Harold is concerned. "I think I like Harold Gull best of your identities," he says just to keep talking, though he feels he's getting a fix on something as well.

"You visualize me making raucous noises and loitering around garbage dumps?"

"More gliding over the ocean waves and through the storm. And catching fish."

"Mm. Fooling the unsuspicious, as well." Harold's silent for a moment, and then goes on, "I have access to a small plane, at the Springfield airport. If you think we'd be better off traveling greater distances with more speed." John turns to look up into Harold's face; Harold shrugs. "Contingency," he says.

John smiles slowly. "I'd love to fly with you, Harold," he says, "but let's decide over breakfast. There's a nice little diner next to the pizza place."

Harold peers at his empty wrist and then around the room, searching for time. "I don't suppose they're open twenty-four hours."

"Come on, Finch; this isn't New York."

"No. So we have a wait ahead of us. I wish I thought I could fall asleep."

"Lie down. Try. I could… rub your back. Or something."

Again, the keen, myopic gaze. "Or something, Mr. Reese?" And he's not that nearsighted; he can read an expression, and he reaches out with precision to rub his thumb against John's lips again. "I don't think I'm up to something tonight. But we might discuss that over lunch."

In the end, neither of them sleeps much. Reese makes a try at finishing the book, while Finch, glasses back on his nose, perches himself upright in his bed with a laptop, pulling wifi magically out of the air, since it's not one of the motel's offered amenities. When the keys stop tapping Reese looks over and sees Finch drifting sideways, and smiles, but it's not too long before the sound is back. Reese nods off a few times with the comfortable patter in his ears.

And then he wakes to Bear snuffling at his hand, wanting to go out. It's morning; the road awaits, or the air, or for all he knows even the sea. They're on the run, hiding, covering their tracks, trying not to think of those they've left behind; he wishes it didn't feel so much like freedom.

Finch is already in the shower. John gets up and heats water in the coffeepot, then unzips the side pocket of the grenade case and takes out the green teabag he's smuggled here all the way from New York.

**Author's Note:**

> Quotes from the Stuart Gilbert translation of _Vol de Nuit_ (though not, unfortunately, from the UK first edition that fetches thousands of dollars in good condition with intact dust jacket).
> 
> Title is from [this song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1-oJXWBhcaw) by Pigpen Theatre Company, which forms part of my "Oh, Mr. Finch" playlist (yes I have a bird-themed playlist, doesn't everyone?).
> 
> Fellow Bujold fans will be able to guess which quote I had plastered at the top of the draft.


End file.
